


Home Base

by raving_liberal



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Compliant, Captain America Secret Santa, Developing Relationship, Friends to More Than Friends, Friendship/Love, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Pre-Relationship, Queer Themes, Queer Theory, Wakanda (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 04:20:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17237312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raving_liberal/pseuds/raving_liberal
Summary: Natasha tries to convince Steve that avoiding Bucky during his recovery in Wakanda isn't doing either of them any favors. A quick Quinjet trip later, Steve realizes Natasha is (as usual) probably right.





	Home Base

**Author's Note:**

  * For [romanticalgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/gifts).



> This is a gift for romantical girl for the Captain America Secret Santa 2018 gift exchange. 
> 
> Now with actual proofreading by david_of_oz!

“You’re doing it again.”

Steve lifts his head from his hand, where it’s been propped for the last thirty minutes, and looks at Natasha. “Hmm?”

“I said you’re doing it again,” Natasha says. 

“Yeah, okay,” Steve says, dropping his head back into his hand. After a beat, he lifts it again. “Wait, what am I doing?”

“Moping.”

“I’m not moping!” Steve says. 

“Are, too,” Natasha insists.

“I’m not,” Steve says. “I’m just thinking.”

“Your brand of thinking looks an awful lot like moping,” Natasha says.

Steve sighs. “I’m really not moping, Nat. I just…”

“You miss him,” Nat supplies. Steve nods. Obviously he misses Bucky. He’s missed Bucky since he fell from the train, and the few times they’ve been together between then and now haven’t done anything but amplify the feeling of wrongness of not having Bucky right there with him. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, when he realizes he’s let the silence go on too long. “I feel like I barely had him back, and then he was gone again. I don’t know what to do with myself, I guess. I need a mission.”

Nat rests a hand on Steve’s forearm and looks him in the eyes. “You can visit him, you know. It’s been weeks. He’d probably love to see you.”

Steve shakes his head, waves a hand dismissively. If it were that easy, doesn’t Natasha think he’d already be doing it. “All I do is get in the way of his progress,” Steve says. He needs to focus on getting better. He needs to move forward. I’m just a reminder of all the stuff from _before_.”

“Did he say that?” Natasha asks.

“He didn’t have to say it,” Steve says. “I just know.”

“So you know what’s better for him than he does?”

Steve huffs in frustration, blowing a long lock of hair away from his face. “I didn’t say that. I just don’t want to be hanging around, making him think I have all these expectations about how he should act or who he should be. I don’t want him to feel like I’m comparing him to how he was before.”

“Oh my God,” Natasha says, with a tremendous, exaggerated eye-roll. “You’re a giant baby, is what you are. You’re making up excuses not to see him because you’re afraid he won’t like you anymore!”

“Nat,” Steve says. He’s tired. He’s restless. His new beard itches. This isn’t helping. 

“ _Steve_ ,” Natasha responds in a fake deep voice probably meant to imitate Steve’s. “That’s it. We’re going.”

“Natasha, no.” He tries to make it sound like a warning, to let Nat know she’s gone too far past the line, but that’s the thing about Natasha – no amount of line-crossing is too far once she makes a decision. Arguing with her is like shouting into the void, sometimes. 

“Get packed tonight. We leave first thing in the morning,” Natasha says. 

“No we’re not!” 

“And pack sunscreen this time, will you? You’re going to get skin cancer if you don’t start wearing sunscreen.”

“I don’t even sunburn,” Steve insists.

“Not that you can see,” Natasha says, using her ‘aren’t I perfectly reasonable?’ tone. “Who knows what it’s doing to you on a cellular level? Maybe you’re turning into the Star-Spangled Man With the Melanoma.”

“I don’t think it works that way.”

“And you’re known for your advanced degrees in science and medicine.”

Steve screws up his face in frustration. “I mean, I’ve actually _lived_ in this body for—”

“Nope!” Natasha interjects. “This is a distraction. Pack. We’re leaving at oh-five-hundred.”

“Maybe you are,” Steve says. “I’m going to drinking my second cuppa coffee at oh-five-hundred.”

***

At oh-five-hundred, the Quinjet takes off from their current secret base, and Steve (along with his sunscreen) is on board, travel mug of coffee in hand. The coffee is an acrid-tasting disappointment; they haven’t been able to do a lot of shopping while on the run, and he’s making do with instant, a hard transition after having a few years to get adjusted to the wonders of the modern coffee shop. Steve tries to focus on the bitterness in his mouth, instead of on the lightness in his heart at the thought of seeing Bucky. 

“You don’t have to be awake for this flight,” Natasha tells him. Her travel mug doesn’t contain coffee, but instead has some truly foul-smelling tea that Nat claims provides a much better energy boost than coffee. Steve thinks it smells like liniment strained through a dirty gym sock, and would rather tough it out with sub-par coffee than drink so much as a drop of that tea. 

“I’m already awake. May as well keep you company,” Steve says.

“Staring out the window and sighing every time you drink a sip of your nasty coffee isn’t exactly what I’d call keeping me company, Rogers.”

“You’re the one complaining about my sighing and my coffee,” Steve grouses. “Doesn’t this thing have an autopilot? Maybe _you_ don’t have to be awake for this flight.”

“That’s cold. I’m hurt.” Natasha doesn’t sound hurt. She sounds amused.

“Hey, just calling it like it see it, Romanov.”

“Drink your coffee, you big baby.”

Steve goes with his immediate impulse to stick his tongue out at Nat, who responds in kind. Imagine if the World Security Council could see them now: two of the world’s most wanted fugitives, pulling faces at each other in a stolen Quinjet somewhere over the Indian Ocean like a pair of bratty grade school kids. Steve could wax poetic about the many reasons why he loves working with Natasha, but moments like these would top the list. They can tease each other and be playful without sacrificing any of the mutual respect and admiration they’ve built up over the years. They both know they can rely on each other when it really counts.

“You want to play cards or something?” Steve asks. 

Natasha tips her head to the side in a big show of mulling it over before saying, “What I really want is for you to tell me why you’re skittish about seeing him.”

“Not everything has to mean something more than it looks like it means,” Steve says.

Natasha raises one immaculately shaped brow. Steve’s personal grooming may have fallen by the wayside, but Nat’s is sharp as ever. “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar?” 

“Nat!” Steve says, feeling his face turn red. “It’s not like that.”

“Did you know there’s an entire group of historians who think it’s like that?” Natasha asks. “NYU offers a course called _Queer Identities During World War II_ that leans pretty heavily on the idea that it’s _exactly_ like that.”

“They don’t know what they’re talking about,” Steve says. For some reason, this new knowledge makes him angrier than Natasha’s good-natured and not-entirely-inaccurate teasing. The idea of a bunch of college kids sitting in class and picking apart his life, Bucky’s life, or the lives of other soldiers Steve served with just rubs him the wrong way. He isn’t ashamed, not for his own sake or on anyone else’s behalf, but it feels like a violation of his privacy. 

“The way they tell it, the Avengers fell apart and you ended up a wanted man because your feelings for James Barnes were, and this is a quote, _more than brotherly_.”

Steve huffs again, because he doesn’t have a response to that. Instead, he rakes both hands through his hair, shoving it out of his face. It’s longer than he has ever worn it, and he either needs a cut or to get some styling product to keep it in check until it’s long enough to tuck behind his ears. Maybe he’ll let it grow as long as Bucky’s. 

“I’m telling you this because I want you to remember things are different now,” Natasha says, more gently now, less teasing. 

“Not everywhere. Not all the way different,” Steve says.

“Maybe not, but different enough that it’s worth thinking about. You’d have support, is all I’m saying, just like you’ve got support for taking a hard line against the Accords. People still believe in you.”

“People don’t know me,” Steve says, feeling the bitterness on his tongue again. Maybe it’s just the coffee. 

“People know what you mean to them,” Nat says. “You may not like it, but you can’t ignore it. Whatever you do, whatever you choose to do, you have people who believe in you.” She nudges his knee with hers. “You have people right here who believe in you.”

“You’re better than just ‘people’, Nat,” Steve says, allowing her friendly gesture to ease the tension between them a little. Even if he’s not completely ready to act on what she’s saying, he appreciates her saying it. He doesn’t know if Bucky would feel the same, but then again, he hasn’t asked. 

“Of course I am,” Natasha says. “I’m a notorious spy and known Captain America collaborator.” 

“You’re a notorious drinker of stank-ass tea,” Steve says.

“‘Stank-ass’? Really, Steve?”

“Hey, Sam’s the one who said it, not me. All I did was repeat it. That tea is definitely stank-ass.”

“It’s healthy, unlike a lot of your life choices,” Natasha protests.

“Yet somehow I’m the one who’s lived to be a hundred, with my coffee and lack of sunscreen,” Steve says, with a shrug. “What can ya do?”

“I can blame Howard Stark, is what.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, you and Tony both” 

After that, they do play cards, then Steve pulls out _Kindred_ , which Sam recommended, and reads it for a while. In what seems like an impossibly short time for the distance they’re traveling, the Quinjet’s com crackles to life as they near the Wakandan border. Natasha returns to the pilot’s seat, headset on, and after a brief exchange with Wakandan security, the Quinjet begins its landing sequence. Outside the window, dense jungle gives way to the beautiful cityscape of Birnin Zana, gleaming silver towers interspersed with brilliant green cultivated foliage. The sight of it never fails to make Steve’s breath catch.

When the Quinjet lands, and Steve and Natasha disembark, Steve is surprised to find Bucky waiting for him on the landing pad. His hair is longer than the last time Steve saw him, but his face looks fuller, the dark circles under his eyes perhaps a bit lighter. Deep blue fabric with subtle golden embroidery is draped around most of his body, including the space his left arm would have otherwise occupied. He reminds Steve of nothing so much as a Biblical figure, somebody immortalized in stained glass or a Renaissance oil painting.

Bucky smiles widely as Steve steps off the Quinjet’s ramp, striding straight towards him and embracing him in a hearty one-armed hug. Steve immediately forgets all the reasons why seeing Bucky wasn’t a good idea. He buries his face in the side of Bucky’s head as he hugs him back, smelling sunshine and some spicy shampoo or cologne. After the hug goes on for at least a full minute, Natasha politely clears her throat. 

“What am I, his entourage?” Nat asks lightly, though Steve can tell it really does mean something to her, the idea of Bucky remembering her and being glad to see her. Luckily, Bucky delivers, and as soon as he releases Steve from the hug, he grabs Natasha up into one. 

“How you doing, kid?” Bucky asks, after he lets her go. 

“I’m alright,” Natasha says. “How about you, old man?”

“Can’t complain,” Bucky says. He jerks his head in Steve’s direction. “This guy give you too much trouble on the flight over?”

“What, this pussycat?” Natasha says. “Never.”

“Aw, you’re a pussycat,” Bucky says to Steve, who can’t fight the flush creeping up into his face. 

“Ain’t exactly how you used to describe me,” Steve says.

Bucky grins. “Yeah, well, I could probably still come up with some choice words for you, if you’d—”

“And that’s my cue to go take a nap,” Natasha cuts in. “I’ve been up since oh-four-hundred.”

“Your usual quarters are all set up,” Bucky says, reeling her back in for another quick hug and an affectionate peck on the cheek. Natasha picks up her bag and heads in the direction of her quarters with a little goodbye wave over her shoulder. Bucky turns to Steve. “How about you? Naptime?”

“Nah, you know me,” Steve says. “I can get by on two hours and a gallon of coffee. Speaking of…”

“Oh yeah, Nat filled me in on your coffee problem when she told me you were coming,” Bucky says. 

“ _Instant_ ,” Steve says, with a shudder.

“A goddamn crime against humanity, is what that is. Shoulda included that in the Geneva Accords,” Bucky says. “I’ve got the good stuff, if you don’t mind a little bit of a drive.”

“I don’t mind,” Steve says. He remembers Bucky telling him about the little house Princess Shuri had arranged for him, a way of getting back into the world slowly. 

“Come on,” Bucky says. Steve follows him down a flight of stairs, then down several long, twisting hallways that seem to carry them up, around, and then up again. Finally, they end up in what appears to be a long garage, with rows and rows of bays, each filled with different vehicles that look more like what Steve had expected cars of the future to look. Bucky passes the vehicles, which range from a fancy limousine to what Steve swears has to be a hover car, until he gets to a motorcycle, though ‘motorcycle’ doesn’t quite convey the beauty of the thing. Its sleek lines and faint glow make it seem more like the mount of a mystical knight of old.

“This is yours?” Steve asks.

Bucky nods. “Yeah. Fancy, right? But it gets the job done.”

“I bet,” Steve says, followed by an impressed whistle through his teeth. “Damn.”

“Want to take her for a spin?” Bucky asks.

“Maybe later,” Steve says. “I don’t think I could keep her on the road.”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem,” Bucky says, swinging one leg over the bike. He nods to the empty space behind him on the long seat. Steve settles in behind him, arms wrapped loosely around Bucky’s waist. Bucky turns his head enough for Steve to see his wicked grin before the motorcycle suddenly shoots forward, the wheels barely touching the ground. A few minutes into the ride, Steve realizes the wheels are _literally_ not touching the ground, hovering a few inches above the surface.

“This is amazing!” he shouts into Bucky’s ear.

“Knew you’d love her,” Bucky hollers back. Steve grips him more tightly, leaning forward until his nose is pressed against the side of Bucky’s head. If Bucky notices, he doesn’t seem to mind. 

Soon, the small house—more of a hut, really, but Bucky had said he liked the simplicity—appears on the horizon, a pond just beyond it. The bike slows, the wheels once more rolling along the ground, and finally pulls to a stop just beside the house.

“Home, sweet home,” Bucky says. They dismount from the bike, which stays upright, pale blue light pulsing around the wheel wells. 

“That was incredible,” Steve says. 

“Wakanda tech,” Bucky explains. “You can’t even imagine the stuff I’ve seen here. Hell, I can barely imagine it, and I’ve actually seen it!” 

Steve nods mutely. Bucky was always the one who loved science fiction, though Steve had tried to find as much passion for it as Bucky. It seems easier now that he’s science fiction himself. Sam’s additions to his reading list had helped, too. 

“If you give me a minute, I’ll get a pot on,” Bucky says as he leads Steve into his home. The small space strikes Steve as being perfect for Bucky. The windows offer clear lines of site to the hill and the pond, the furniture is functional and comfortable, not too flashy. The main living area has clearly been set up to accommodate a resident with only one arm: tables, lamps, and other devices all set to the right where Bucky can comfortably reach them while seated. 

Steve occupies space in the living area while Bucky brews coffee. Soon, he has a steaming cup of midnight-black coffee shoved into his hands, the smell alone rich enough to make Steve feel like crying. Bucky returns with his own cup and guides the two of them to the sofa, where Bucky props his feet comfortably on the long, low table in front of them. 

“So, how’ve you been, really?” Bucky asks. “I mean, I got the report from Natasha, but you know how she is. It’s all so roundabout, you halfway forget what it was you asked her to begin with.”

“I’ve been alright,” Steve says. He gestures with his cup. “The coffee’s been shit, though.”

“You know you two are welcome here, right?” Bucky asks.

“I couldn’t impose like that,” Steve says. “It’s too much to ask of T’challa, and I don’t want to get in your way.”

“Well, you _are_ a little bigger than you were the last time we lived together,” Bucky says, “but I feel like we’d manage okay.”

Steve shakes his head. “I can’t, Buck. I want to, but I can’t.”

“And why not?” Bucky asks.

“Because I’m an international fugitive.”

“Wakanda doesn’t exactly extradite, in case you didn’t notice,” Bucky says wryly.

“Yeah, I know,” Steve says. “But you’ve got a life here. You’re building something new for yourself. You don’t need me here holding you back.”

“Who said you’d hold me back? ’Cause I sure as hell never said that,” Bucky says.  
Steve shrugs. “Guess I came up with it all on my own.”

“Well, it’s stupid,” Bucky says. “Did you get stupid in the last seventy years or something?”

“What? No. I don’t think so.”

“Then don’t act stupid, Steve,” Bucky says. “You wouldn’t hold me back. You couldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t you worry I was thinking about what it was like before?” Steve asks.

“Back when you were a five-foot-nothing walking asthma attack?” Bucky asks. “Sure you’d think about it. I think about it, too. We’ve got past together. There’s no getting around that, but that stuff’s all over and done with. I’m working on what’s good right now.”

“So… what’s good right now?” Steve asks tentatively.

“This coffee. My house.” Bucky smiles, just one corner of his mouth lifting up. “You being here. This is all good stuff, and like my therapist says, I’m allowed to want good stuff.”

Steve’s face feels warm, but that doesn’t stop him from smiling widely. “I’m good stuff?”

“Damn right you are.”

They lapse into quiet, drinking their coffee. Steve drifts a little closer to Bucky on the sofa, and Bucky shifts his leg to rest alongside Steve’s. The weight of their past, all the baggage, it’s still there; even the collective brilliance of Shuri and an entire Wakandan medical team can’t erase the damage done to the both of them. This moment right here, though, is good. It’s peaceful.

“Maybe I could stay for a little while,” Steve says. 

“Wouldn’t mean you couldn’t still go out into the world and help people,” Bucky points out.

“But this could be a base of operations.”

“A _home_ base.”

Steve nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I’d like that.”

“Of course you would,” Bucky says, “on account of I thought of it, and I’ve always been the smart one.”

“Oh yeah? So which one does that make me.”

“You’re the smart _ass_ one.”

Steve laughs loudly, then Bucky is laughing with him, too. Today probably isn’t going to be the day they figure out if NYU’s _Queer Identities of World War II_ course is on the nose with its theories or not, but maybe, just maybe, Steve can stick around long enough for them to get there.


End file.
